Crossing The Cosmos
by gruff
Summary: Short story about Cosmos who explores the universe looking for the body of his friend Beachcomber, who he believes was sent to his death by the actions of Optimus Prime following the infamous battle with Megatron aboard the Ark.


Crossing the Cosmos by gruff

"Look," smiled Impactor, a long, long time ago, his hand pressed gently but firmly upon my chest, "he said 'No.'" Xaaron, Daybreak and the others had left, leaving Impactor, the then leader of Autobot gaurd to block my path. I stood barely waist high to him, even as he bent down, almost on one knee. I made a move to try to pass him, but he simply pressed harder on my body. I protested once more but my calls were met by a blanket silence, save for the echo of Xaaron's golden boots stepping down the hallway and out of sight. One of the other bigger Autobots walked by and took Impactor's attention. As Springer and Impactor engaged in conversation it was as if I no longer existed.

Hubcap looked at me and shook his head. He knew an investment opportunity when he saw one. This was not one of them. He had wasted enough time and left to find some other mug to rip off. "Come on, Cosmos," Kup suggested of me, "perhaps it was too much to hope for." I stood with my icy glare staring at the two larger robots for a moment before following my friend from the doorway and back outside.

The rain lashed down making the shiny metallic surface of the planet more slippery than a greasy nut, and the two of us walked silently back towards our homes. I said nothing, but inside I was seething. Two million years ago they had talked of nothing else, that they had to send out a reconnaissance team to locate Prime. They had to find him, their great leader, their hero. Sky Lynx had been the first to volunteer, so he claimed, to seek out Optimus, but his fuel costs were simply too high. But surely nothing was too expensive when it came to finding Prime?

I snorted to myself at this memory. Prime this, Prime that. If he was such a great leader, then he would not have lost his team and the greatest space exploration vehicle we had ever constructed in one fell swoop. If he was such a great leader, then he would have foreseen that the loss of Megatron would not end the Cybertronian War. If he was such a great leader, then surely his influence would have spread further than for his minions to mourn his lost without stopping to think of those that perished with him.

I stopped in my tracks as I recalled Beachcomber who was aboard tha Ark that day. I shook my head. Why was he on board? Why was he even a part of this stinking war? He was my friend. He had no right to die. I felt the comforting hand of Kup on my shoulder and looked up. He knew. He understood. He may have spend the majority of the last two million years in and out of active service against the skirmishes of Decepticons. But he never forgot his friend, and it has to be said, fellow misery-bot, Ironhide. He too was on that shuttle along with several loyal greats of the Autobot campaign. If Prime was such a great leader, why did he let them die?

A passing aircraft recaptured my thoughts. But the truth was, over the past two million years or so, things had changed. Priorities had changed. Planets had been conquered and lost. Cybertron had been unified and split. Many of us living here and on the other planets we had both graced and destroyed by our presence had never even met Prime or witnessed the horror of Megatron. Today we were at peace with the Decepticons. How long that might last was anyone's guess. The last 'peace' last officially some hundred years or more, but in truth no-one told the Seekers, the hard core aerial division that continued their daily bombing runs regardless. That said, no-one told the Wreckers for that matter either, an elite group of quasi-Autobots, Autobots who took too much pleasure in ripping the life from their enemies for my liking. Kup was one such Autobot.

Perceptor had assessed him and his psyche. According to him Kup was simply lost, trying to fill the void caused by the absense of Prime, Ironhide and the others. Kup disagreed and went on to prove his mental stability by joining Impactor, Springer and the others on their quest for brutal retaliation and retribution. He had more oil on his hands than most Decepticons. He did it for a purpose, so he claimed. Who was I to protest?

Who was I, full stop? A nothing Autobot, some spooky little robot with the combat experience of a brick and the skills to match. I had no place in their world. My world was Cybertron, not this living, breathing battle ground of anarchy. But at the same time I was no loner. I had friends, many great ones, and I had no desire to leave them as others had done, like Maximus and the others, and so the rumour went, even Sandstorm before him. I simply wanted to find my friends and to live with them in peace, a real peace, not this Cybertronian mockery that would surely go the same way as the last one and the countless ceasefires beforehand.

I met Kup in a bar a few days beforehand. I knew him from years gone by, of course, but our paths had had little reason to cross. Like two acquaintences who were never quite friends we would nod awkwardly in recognition every time we passed, perhaps once every thousand years or so. But the need to say anything to accompany this nod had drained away as much as our desire to indulge in a pseudo-friendship. Hubcap changed that, well nearly anyway. He was a nice Autobot, he would tell you, but you could not trust him. He would help you as much as he could, like any friend would, but he was no friend. Hubcap was always looking out for number one. So when I told him I wanted to talk to Xaaron about funding an exploration mission, he jumped on the bandwagon and promised to broker me a deal, with a cut for himself, of course.

He re-introduced me to Kup. At first I could not see the relevance, but as we talked, things looked like they made sense, particularly through my rose-tinted optics. I wanted the energon, a small amount compared the tons they wasted every day, to head out into the stars and search for my friends. That would not have been the first time I had been refused, nor would it be the last. But Hubcap had promised things would be different. He had caught wind of Kup's psychological trauma too and felt with him on board perhaps they could persuade Xaaron the search was not so much for Beachcomber, Gears and the others, but for their Bot Optimus Prime, their prize champion.

Needless to say it was all shrouded optimism. Xaaron was not interested, claiming the orbital paths of the galactic entities had changed so much over the past two million years, and the records of Prime's chosen suicide path were so cloaked in counter-espionage and counter-counter-espionage that there was no hope of finding him. Finding him, of course, not them. All they were interested in was Prime. But what did Xaaron know about exploring the universe? He knew nothing of the stars; I was built for this, not some bastardisation of the word 'peace' that we endured every day on Cybertron. I knew I could find them, if he just gave me the energon. But he did not give me the energon, so on Cybertron I remained.

Since then I requested the resources countless more times, and countless more times I was refused. After another million years of asking, I went my own way. I stopped asking and started doing. I joined forces with robots I am reluctant and ashamed to have to admit I mixed with. Decepticons like Octane and Swindle as well as further dealings with Hubcap and other Autobots of dubious intent. But these confessions have no place in this story; they are episodes in their own right. I raised the capital and I raised the energon. I lost count of those I betrayed, friends I exploited and enemies I should have had no right to be colluding with.

I spent the next million years away from Cybertron, returning only when my resources were depleated. When I returned I would take stock of the changes and see where to head next, how much energon it required and what it was I needed to acquire that energon. Perhaps, when things went wrong, I would spent a couple of hundred years encarcerated for my actions, theft and deceit, but each time I would emerge with greater resolve and determination. Like I said, that was all a long, long time ago, as near as damn-it two, three or four million years ago; I've forgotten how long. But it was not until I fast forwarded to within a few of hundred years of today, that things started getting really interesting.

--

They said it could not be done. They said it was a myth, a legend and an impossible dream. Well, I dreamt it and I found it. It was a pretty little planet, close to its single sun, blue, green and clouded in swirls of white. A carbon playing field of primates and four-legged beasts, dumb and harmless. Well, mostly harmless. I landed on the planet only once I had observed the dominant species of their time from the skies.

It was hard to determine why that species was so dominant. They had conquered the seas with great vessels, yet the skies remained uncongested and home only to insects and birds much smaller than the sailors below. Once I studied their languages from distance, I heard there navigators talk of one day reaching for the skies and the stars beyond, but first there was their own world to rape. Explorers, voyagers, merchants and travellers had sailed the seas to find new lands, to accept the challenges of a primitive life and to overcome them by technical inginuity. I would smile from distance in the thought that even the humble bird surpassed them as they were yet to discover flight; how might they react to my own technology?

As fascinating as these creatures were, and so far advanced as they were for this region of the galaxy, they were still not my reason for being here. I had traced the signals, studied the charts, stolen the evidence and deliberated my thoughts. Perhaps this was the final resting place of Beachcomber, Ironhide, and dare I care for him, Optimus Prime. I circled the Americas, as they are known today, in search of the signs. I spent two hundred years, in and out of sight, occasionally poking fun at humans, as I had come to know they called themselves. I might land in their gardens, or even walk down their street in broad daylight, just for a moment of course, just for some fun.

But as their inevitable lust for power and self-destruction emerged and they finally conquered the skies, metallic beasts that reminded me too much of their Decepticon counterparts on Cybertron. They would maim and kill, all for resources, land and power. It was not too different to my quest, although I had an altogether separate motivation. I had to keep a lower profile for now, as bewitched as they would be by my presense, they now had the means and power to bring me in. I had to work harder to find it, but I did.

Mount St. Hilary, Oregon, the year 1975, local time, and there it was, the Ark. It was not visible yet, of course, still shrouded by four million years of debris. I had descended deep into the ancient volcano, bored through rocks that Beachcomber, as perhaps one of Cybertron's best ever geologists, could have identified for me. There was a hole and a crack and inside I stepped. And they were there.

Scarcely did I notice the deactivated bodies of Megatron and Soundwave as I stepped over two of the most feared Decepticons of all history, and I certainly did not notice Optimus Prime lying slumped over a console next to Prowl. Instead, I stepped through the wreckage to find Beachcomber, his lifeless body smashed in the corner of the craft. Like the others, his face was covered in a fine layer of powder, dust and sand from four million years of sleep. I found my hand wiping the grime from the side of his head, until his unsupported cranium rolled to one side. It was a shocking reminder that he was indeed quite deactivated.

I stood up and looked around. There was Bumblebee, Jazz at his side, Gears, Tracks and the others. The twisted forms of Buzzsaw and Rumble were at my feet as the realisation of my mausoleum closed in on me. I had promised myself I would not be interested. I swore that I would not do it. But I could not help myself. I turned to see Optimus Prime, my nemesis. I smiled to myself. Nemesis was a strong word. Yes, he sent his warriors to their deaths and yes, that had made my life feel quite empty. But in his helplessness, his death and his legions of loyal supporters, he had rid Cybertron of Megatron. But was that a good thing?

I knelt down on one knee, my fingers caressing the barrel of Megatron's fusion cannon, the most feared weapon on Cybertron of its day. Yes Megatron was a crazy spark of a glitch who had brought pain and misery to millions. Was Lord Straxus any different? What about Shockwave or even Megadeath before them both? A robot may die, the Decepticon army might rise and fall, but the idea lives on, with or without Megatron. And that was what had happened.

I found myself looking over at Optimus Prime, so similar and yet so different in so many ways. They were both ideologists, flawed by their stubbornness. So captivated were they by the thought of ridding their worlds of their respective scourges, neither stopped to think what would happen in their absence. Did Prime really think the Decepticons would keel over and collapse without Megatron? Did Megatron really think the Autobots would surrender without Prime? Were they really so arrogant to believe their sacrifice along with their key troops was fitting for their cause?

It was indeed flawed ideology on both sides of the fence. The Autobots and Decepticons continued to fight their wars, just as the humans did. "Lest we forget." someone on this planet quoted at the prospect of ignoring the warning signs of history. Kup would turn in his grave, assuming by now he was dead. I had not seen him now for a couple of million years and surely even his luck was wavering if he was still fighting for the Wreckers. History, it seems, had taught them nothing. They still fought wars and they still killed each other. Every year, they were dress it up with some political slag and preach the world the importance of ridding the planet of some evil ideology. But that itself was just hypocritical ideology too. Perhaps one day they would learn, just as Prime and Megatron found out the hard way some four million years sooner.

--

As soon as I heard the news today I thought of the chronology of these events. My mind had been cast back towards that epic journey of mine to rediscover my friends, to offer myself closure to this chapter, this enormous chapter, of Cybertronian history. My spacecraft mode was small with little or no cargo room. Perhaps I could have bundled in Beachcomber, minus a limb or two, and returned him to Cybertron where he belonged both in life and death. I chose not to. I lived with the knowledge I had found them despite the Autobot council, not because of them.

I sat at my console and activate the monitor. With an instinctive check behind me that no-one was in earshot, I selected the single photograph I had taken nine years ago as I stood in the quiet grave called the Ark. In the grand scheme of things, nine years was but the beat of a heart in a human lifetime, but for nine years nevertheless I had retained my secret. I had found my friend, Beachcomber, and his friends Gears and Bumblebee. I had walked confidently amidst the killers Skywarp and Thundercracker and the ambitious tyrant Starscream. I knew their secret but I told no-one.

Those nine years were longer than the four million I had endured before. I had longed for the truth, but somehow the realisation of the prize rarely matches up to the thrill of the chase. Beachcomber was dead. I had seen that with my own optics. The photograph on the screen showed me as much. But only me. I had never disclosed this to anyone. I felt it was better to leave him in peace along with all the others that had died. I had my closure, for now at least.

Sure, I wanted to tell the planet I had found them, I had found my friends. I had seen Megatron's lifeless body in its most deserved form. I wanted to tell Kup and to offer him this closure too. But I knew that would not be possible. How could I bring him back, any of them? How could I tell them without the hysteria taking over. All they would care about was Optimus Prime, the robot they cheered; the robot who killed all our friends, the master leader of hypocritical ideology. I almost felt like screaming from the spires of Iacon that I was right to look for them for they could be found. Almost.

Instead, outside, there was the bustling noise of robots rushing to the meeting chambers, the airwaves filled with the story of Blaster, the hero. I smiled at this notion. He had, apparently, picked up the signal from the newly awoken Optimus Prime (who else?) from the planet Earth. Earth, you say? Can't say that I've ever heard of that one, I might smile. Some eruption, some powerful volcanic surge that reactivated the slumbering Autobots, and unfortunately, also the Decepticons too. Beachcomber may now be alive, but that meant so was Megatron. But if Megatron lived, at least it meant Optimus Prime had lost. That was one small mercy at least. I hated Optimus Prime for what he did to us, leaving Cybertron in a state of war for four million years. I hated Optimus Prime for the way he was adored by the ignorant as some messianic genius for his flawed ideology. But more importantly, I hated Optimus Prime for killing Beachcomber and the others. But now it seemed that even in death he was to be given a second chance. I hated Optimus Prime, and that was why I could never tell Kup or the others I found him.

A small icon flashed momentarily on my screen. It was an incoming message from Kup. I activated the link and soon his old face appeared on the screen. It turned out he was not dead after all. I smiled and nodded that same nod of acknowledgement I had not nodded for some two million years. "I suppose you've heard." he asked with a smile. The news of Ironhide and the others had travelled fast. By now the planet knew. I nodded again with a smile, but I said nothing. "Prime's alive!" He added, the glint in his eye reminding me of his admiration for that soldier. My smile lessened at this statement. But I suppose he had his reasons. Ironhide may have been his friend, like Beachcomber was mine, but Prime too was his friend, whereas Prime to me was simply a killer. "I knew they'd find them eventually!" he beamed.

I laughed a little at this and clicked a couple of buttons on my console. "'They?'" I quoted of him as I transmit to him the photograph of the Ark I had taken just nine years earlier. Kup's voice fell silent as he studied the photograph. For four million years since Prime and Megatron fell to their death we had craved peace, all of us, the Decepticons as much as the Autobots. The Autobots wanted to co-exist; the Decepticons wanted outright unilateralism. They may have occupied opposing ends of the spectrum, but neither wanted this war. They both wanted peace. And in this photograph, they had all found it. A nod of respect revealed itself as he observed the timestamp on the image, proof I had found them some nine years before Blaster had received the message. Kup smiled, but said nothing. He knew. He understood. 


End file.
